BEATRICE, CAPTURED!
“No!” Worrin cried. “She’s mine!”
Petula thought that was a strange way for Warren to describe his friendship with her mother, but this was no time to quibble over words. Her friend was risking his life, and Petula needed all the help she could get.
Unfortunately, before Worrin could do any good, the blue-haired witch managed to grab him, too, and then proceeded to drag both children dangerously close to the roof’s edge. Petula peered down to the ground far below, and her stomach flipped nervously. There would be no portaling her way out of this trouble, not with the witch’s iron grip on her casting arm.
“Careful!” the witch taunted. “You have a very important decision to make. Either you agree to come with us peacefully back to the Black Caldera, or these poor innocent children take a long tumble over the side of this building. Now what will it be?”
Beatrice raised both hands in the air in surrender.
“Mom, no!” Petula cried.
But the decision was made. Beatrice dropped her perfumier bottle and it rolled past Petula’s feet, disappearing over the side of the hotel. An instant later, she was snared in a crackling net of electricity. She didn’t fight or struggle; she simply gazed at Petula with a soft expression that said, “Everything will be all right.”
Petula watched helplessly as a witch slung Beatrice over her broom like a sack of grain before hopping on beside her. “Come on, girls,” she said. “Let’s deliver our prize to the queen.”
“But what about the hotel?” another witch asked. “Calvina wants that, too!”
“One thing at a time! I bet the queen won’t even care about the stupid hotel once she has Beatrice the Bold in her grasp!”
Worrin lunged toward the witches. “You won’t get away with this,” he snarled in a much nastier voice than Petula had ever heard.
But the witches ignored him, jumping onto their brooms and soaring into the sky. Petula stared helplessly after her mother, shrinking smaller and smaller as she and her captors faded into the distant Malwoods.
Petula slumped to the ground. “This is all my fault. I should have listened to my mother. I should never have interfered!”
“Oh, but what a story!” Mr. Vanderbelly exclaimed, creeping out from behind the chimney. His pen was a blur as he scribbled onto his notepad:
CHANGE IN COURSE
Worrin patted Petula on the shoulder. “You tried your best. I only wish I could have helped.”
Petula groaned in dismay. But then a croak caught her attention, and she turned to see one of the crows peeping out of the birdhouse.
“You saved my bottle! Oh thank you!” she said, taking it from the bird’s beak. “It’s my only one. Not that it does any good when I drop it in the middle of a fight.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Worrin said. “We’ll get Beatrice back. I’ll set a course for the Malwoods right now.”
“No,” Petula said. “We can’t drag everyone into danger. Mom wouldn’t want us to.”
But Worrin shook his head. “There is no discussion. Beatrice is part of the family, and we’re going to get her back. We’re sending this hotel into the
STRANGE CREATURES
s soon as Warren stepped into the forest, the air seemed to turn moist and humid. The surrounding gloom felt like a thick and heavy cloak. It was such a startling contrast to the sunny, open plains he had just been walking across—as if he’d stepped into another world, one where sunlight didn’t exist.
Warren hesitated as the gravity of the situation fell upon him. He was just a twelve-year-old boy entering one of the scariest territories on earth. Was he crazy to think he’d ever catch the hotel?
I have to try, he told himself. His friends and family were in danger—not to mention his beloved hotel. For twelve generations, his ancestors had cared for and preserved the old building. Warren couldn’t let a shape-shifter deliver it into the hands of witches and their evil queen.
Warren quickened his pace, walking with renewed determination.
But he had to be careful. There was no clear path through the forest, and along the ground, roots and vines wrestled for space. Warren tripped or stumbled every time he dared to look around. Every now and then he’d hear the snap of a twig, and he’d turn to discover a harmless forest creature: a deer, a frog, a chipmunk. Upon closer inspection, however, Warren realized these were not ordinary animals. The deer had three eyes. The frog had pointy teeth. The chipmunk had two heads. They didn’t seem to mean him any harm; they simply watched from a distance. But just to be safe, Warren grabbed a sturdy branch to use as a walking stick.
The trek reminded him of his dear labyrinth back at the original site of the Warren Hotel. When Warren used to play there, he would imagine himself as JACQUES RUSTYBOOTS, the main character from his favorite pirate adventure books, and he would pretend that the hedge maze was a wild jungle filled with surprises and peril.
But those were just idle games; this was real life. He truly was in a wild jungle [well, a wild forest, anyway], and the threats were not imagined. This both thrilled and terrified Warren as he thwacked at bushes and low-hanging branches. He felt brave and ferocious, eager to reach the hotel so he could confront the mimic and take back his birthright.
Warren even felt bold enough to sing a Jacques Rustyboots song:
Warren sang it several times, feeling quite cheerful indeed. But soon he noticed that the forest around him was growing darker. The sun was setting and he stopped singing, realizing that dusk might not be the best time to call attention to himself.
The long walk was also taking a toll. His short legs were growing tired and his shoulders were beginning to ache. Warren felt he was making good progress and stopped to consult his map. The good news was that he was on the right track. The bad news was that, after a full afternoon of walking, he wasn’t even halfway to the Black Caldera. And the worst news was that he was traveling in a narrow channel between two witch villages, Bog Villa and Festering Ferns. As long as he continued in a northeasterly direction, he seemed likely to avoid trouble. But to do so, he’d have to pay close attention to his compass and not veer off track.
As he tucked his map into his backpack, Warren saw the food and remembered he was hungry. In his rush to catch the hotel, he still hadn’t eaten anything! So he pulled out a Sap-Mallow Surprise and peeled open the foil wrapper, his mouth watering in anticipation. The chocolate had melted a bit, but the spongy marshmallow had held up nicely, and Warren chewed the candy in bliss. He was tempted to eat the whole thing, but he set aside the last bite for Sketchy.
I wish Sketchy were here now, Warren thought sadly. Jacques Rustyboots always had his trusty pet macaw McCrackers at his side, as well as a host of other brave friends. Warren was all alone, and night was quickly approaching. Yet as worried as he was for his own safety, he was even more concerned for his friends back at the hotel. He imagined the mimic wreaking havoc, and he hoped that somebody would realize the shape-shifter was not really him. But what if they didn’t? What awful things was the impostor doing in his name? Warren gritted his teeth with renewed determination and shoved to his feet. He had to keep going.
Warren picked up his pace but only stumbled more as night settled around him. The air grew chill and a thick fog rolled in, blanketing the forest floor with undulating waves of mist, making it harder to see obstacles in his path.
A MUCH-NEEDED BREAK
The nocturnal woodland creatures began to stir in a symphony of chittering, rustling, and croaking. In the distance, owls HOO HOO-ed with their hollow voices, and all around leaves were crunching from movements unknown. A bat burst out of a shrub, causing Warren to cry out. The bat flapped off into the night, screeching, but its cries were cut short as a hawk swooped out of the trees and swallowed it whole.
Soon it was almost impossible to see anything, so Warren fumbled for a lantern he’d strapped to his pack. Its glimmer did little to penetrate the murk, casting eerie shadows all around. That’
s when the whispering started.
It was subtle at first, a creepy chorus of sibilant noise, and seemed to be coming from all directions.
Warren dove into a bush and blew out his lantern, certain that witches were lurking nearby. He peeped out between the leaves, half out of fright, half out of curiosity. He saw nothing, but the whispering grew louder and clearer. The sounds were molding together now, and Warren could make out words but still didn’t understand them. Whatever the whispers were saying, it seemed to be in a different language.
Warren waited uneasily, expecting a procession of witches to appear, but none ever did. The whispering continued to grow louder and more urgent, repeating the chant again and again; the hairs on the back of Warren’s neck stood on end. Were they ghosts? he wondered. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but all he could see were the tall pines rustling in the breeze.
After some time, the whispering grew softer and softer until it died away, leaving Warren to wonder if he’d heard it at all. He crawled out of his hiding place but realized it was too late to proceed much farther. I need to rest and regain my strength, he thought glumly and looked about for a place to sleep.
SEARCHING FOR A BED
A hollow log seemed promising, until Warren poked into the opening and three golden eyes glowed back at him. “Sorry! I’m sorry!” he said, backing away.
Next, he peeked under a wide bush, but a large tarantula was crouched there and hissed when he approached. “Whoops, I beg your pardon!” Warren said hastily.
Finally, he spotted a cozy-looking oak tree with a ring of fallen leaves around its trunk. Warren patted them into a makeshift bed. “I guess this place is as good as any,” he said. At least no other critters had claimed the spot for themselves.
Warren used his knapsack as a pillow and covered himself with leaves. They were a bit itchy, but at least he felt camouflaged. Overcome with exhaustion, he slipped almost instantly into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next morning, Warren awoke to the sound of snuffling. Blearily, he opened his eyes. It was well past dawn and the sun was high in the sky, but the forest was still drenched in a dreary gray pallor. Only a few thin beams of light were tenacious enough to break through the foliage overhead.
Warren sat up and peered around, blinking his eyes into focus. When he saw the source of the snuffling, he almost jumped out of his skin. Not thirty feet away, an enormous shaggy creature was walking about on two legs and grasping at pine trees. A sap-squatch! The creature carried itself like an ape but had a face like a bear, minus the snout but with two rows of sharp teeth. Its white fur was matted with dirt and twigs. Warren glanced around in panic, desperate for a place to hide. There were no rocks or shrubs large enough to shield him. He was still partially covered with leaves from the night before, but what if the sap-squatch found him by scent or stepped on him by accident?
as the sap-squatch ambled closer. He grasped a pine tree and shook it hard, then growled in frustration. Warren couldn’t help but notice that the sap-squatch seemed interested only in the pine trees, not the spindly birches or twisted junipers growing nearby.
Warren glanced up at the oak that towered over his sleeping spot. Unlike the squat pines that populated most of the forest, the oak was tall, with wide branches that looked easy to climb. Quietly shrugging his knapsack onto his shoulders, Warren grasped one of the lower branches and hoisted himself up. He felt a shudder and paused. Was it an earthquake? Or had he imagined it? He glanced down again at the sap-squatch, snarling as it grasped another pine trunk and raked the bark.
Warren scrambled up to the next tier of branches. He felt another shudder, even more violent than the first. Warren almost lost his grip as leaves rained down around him.
What was happening?
The sap-squatch was even closer now, and it seemed increasingly agitated. Warren knew he wasn’t high enough to escape notice. He’d have to climb more if he hoped to hide successfully.
But when he scrambled up to the next branch, the tree shook so hard that Warren realized it was trying to throw him off. “Oh no!” Warren gasped as he clung to the trunk. “Please, let me up!”
To his astonishment, a face materialized out of the trunk; it bore the weathered appearance of a grouchy old man. “Pesky boy!” grumbled the tree. “Why don’t you leave me alone! I didn’t become a tree so people would climb all over me!”
TALKING TREES
The tree’s statement was odd, but Warren didn’t have time to ponder its meaning. “Shhh,” he whispered. “There’s a sap-squatch down there!”
“So?” the tree replied sourly. “Sap-squatches are everywhere.” He paused thoughtfully. “Well, they used to be, anyway. That’s the first one I’ve seen in some time.”
“I’m afraid it’s going to eat me,” Warren said.
“Well, that’s your problem!” the tree said with another toss of its branches. “Now get off of me!”
“Please!” Warren cried.
Meanwhile, the sap-squatch was getting closer and closer. It stopped walking and cocked an ear, as if hearing Warren’s voice on the wind. Warren held his breath and remained still until the creature shook its head and resumed snuffling.
“Please,” Warren repeated, this time in a whisper. “I’ll offer you something in return!”
“What could an ugly boy like you have to offer me?” The tree’s branches shook with laughter. “Years ago, I may have asked for money or fame. I wasn’t always a tree, you know. But I grew tired of being a nobody, always pretending to be something I wasn’t. I’m so glad I’m not nobody anymore!”
“I bet it’s very nice to be a tree,” Warren said.
The tree seemed pleased by this response. “Well, then, at least you have common sense. But let’s see if you have the smarts to back them up. If you can solve my riddle, I’ll let you hide in my branches.”
“Of course!” Warren said with relief. He was quite proud of his riddle-solving abilities.
“What do a tooth, a tree, and a king all have in common?” rumbled the tree.
Warren chewed his lip. He didn’t know the answer off the top of his head. He glanced back at the sap-squatch, which had abandoned the log and was now lumbering in Warren’s direction. Warren hoped he could solve the riddle quickly because he didn’t have much time to spare.
A king and a tree have arms, Warren thought. But a tooth doesn’t.
The sap-squatch shook another pine and growled.
A king and a tooth have a mouth, but a tree doesn’t…
The sap-squatch growled again. He was getting angrier.
An idea formed in Warren’s mind. “I’ve got it!” he said. “Is it a cavity?”
The tree shook its branches violently. “No!”
Warren lost his grip and slipped to a lower branch. It took nearly all of his strength, but he managed to hold on. “But that was a clever guess,” the tree admitted. “So I’ll give you one more chance!”
Sweat broke out on Warren’s brow. He’d been so sure his guess was correct. What else could it be?
Suddenly the sap-squatch looked up and its beady black eyes fixed onto Warren. Then it bared its teeth and let out a mighty roar.
“A crown!” Warren exclaimed. A king wears a crown on his head. The top of a tooth is called a crown. And the leaves and branches growing out of a tree trunk are known as a crown. “That’s what they all share! A crown!”
The tree stopped shaking. “That is correct!”
Warren wasted no time. He grasped the branch above him and scurried up just as the sap-squatch charged toward the oak tree, colliding with the trunk in a mighty crash. The tree shook so hard that Warren nearly lost his grip, but he continued onward and upward, nimble as a cat, thanks to years of climbing gutter pipes and winding stairways in the hotel.
The sap-squatch’s roars grew fainter as the thick leaves of the oak tree smothered the sounds below. Warren paused to catch his breath and sighed with relief.
“Thank you, Mr. Tree,” he sa
id. But the tree’s scowling face had melded back into the bark, and there was no response.
AN INTERROGATION
ueen Calvina stared down at Beatrice the perfumier, now bound and shackled to a pillar in a palace cell. With her wrists tied, Beatrice’s magic was neutralized; she would be unable to conjure even the smallest of spells.
Calvina was wearing her most fearsome battle mask, made from the skull of an extinct manticore. Usually her victims were terrified by the sight, but Beatrice didn’t seem frightened at all. She stared back at Calvina with a cold, hard expression.
“At last,” the queen said aloud. “The famous Beatrice the Bold is in my grasp. My girls say you barely put up a fight! Could it be that you’re losing your edge?”
Beatrice said nothing.
Calvina’s coven hovered nearby, buzzing with excitement.
“Your Royal Darkness, what about our reward?” asked the blue-haired witch.
“Not now!” Calvina roared. “I’m busy with an interrogation!”
The queen turned back to her captive and smiled sweetly from behind the mask. “You understand why we might be a tad upset with you, yes? You’ve captured quite a few of our sisters over the years.”
“Including two just yesterday,” said a witch with rotten teeth. “She vanquished Kragga and Pink!”
“Is that so?” the queen asked.
Beatrice said nothing.
Calvina reached forward and rummaged through Beatrice’s pockets. With a triumphant glare, she pulled out two tiny perfume bottles, each filled with a swirling, cloudy substance. “Why, here they are!”
The queen dashed the bottles to the floor, shattering the glass into thousands of pieces. The smell of rotten eggs filled the air, and from putrid purple smoke emerged the two captured witches, looking slightly worse for wear.
Warren the 13th and the Whispering Woods Page 5